


Fun and Games

by The Lauderdale (TheLauderdale)



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-05
Updated: 2017-07-05
Packaged: 2018-11-23 16:29:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11406201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLauderdale/pseuds/The%20Lauderdale
Summary: Elladan and Elrohir.  The sons of Elrond.  Fandom typically presents two very different takes on "the twins," so this story tries to settle the question.  Are they the prank-loving mischief-makers from Rivendell, or the grim avengers of their mother Celebrían?  The answer lies within...





	Fun and Games

Gildor Inglorion woke to find that he could not raise his head more than two inches from the surface on which he lay.

He did not struggle.  He let the back of his head touch down again on the pillow and tried to remain still and silent.  Although he did not open his eyes or allow his heart or breath to quicken, his mind raced with the keen speed of a falcon.

 _Something holds me down,_ he thought.  _But what is it?_

Arms at his side, he could feel something wound taut around the wrists of either hand, but that was not what kept him from raising his head.

_There is nothing constraining my chest or shoulders.  There is nothing around my neck._

Silently, carefully, he endeavored to raise his head again, then lowered it gently as he considered what he had learned.

_It is my hair.  There is something in my hair._

He lay silent, thinking quickly.  The surface beneath him was soft and comfortable.  As he opened his eyes to see the richly carved beams overhead, his initial alarm began to dissipate.  He was in Rivendell, in the excellent bedroom appointed to him by Elrond whenever he stayed in that great lord's pleasant holding, and he was on the bed into which he had slipped the previous night.  He had gone there after much good cheer in the Hall of Fire, tired, merry, and thankful for a night's sleep to be passed on a soft downy mattress, beneath cool sheets.  Sweet it was to lie under the stars, but sweet it was also to lay himself beneath the eaves of the Last Homely House, in the close security of his own little chamber.

He was here now, in that same bed, alone, bound by his wrists and his hair, and he had no idea how he had gotten into this situation.

 _Was_ he alone?  He listened.  Although he could not hear anything, a prickling sensation between his shoulder blades made him almost certain that he was being watched.  Affecting unconcern, he tested the bonds at his wrists again, and determined that he should be able to work his hands free in a few moments.  His legs, which he had already tested, were free – nothing encumbered his knees or his ankles.  Whoever had done this to him had either made a very foolish oversight, or simply didn't care that he would ultimately be able to free himself.

He heard a pair of voices in the outer corridor, footsteps approaching his room.  Two Elven maidens, speaking briskly of domestic matters: most likely servants of the household.  As both footsteps and voices passed his door and gradually receded, he decided they had nothing to do with his current predicament.  And nothing sounded amiss in the larger House.

Feeling now that he was not in any danger, Gildor began to twist and turn his wrists in their bindings until he had freed one hand and, with it, quickly freed the other.  Although he felt no loss in circulation, he rubbed both wrists gently before bringing his hands to his head.

It was when Gildor felt his hair, which had been pulled into some five score of long, beribboned locks laced in tight, tidy knots to the ornate headboard of his comfortable bed, that he began, belatedly, to bellow.

-.-.-.-

"You were very good about it," said Glorfindel.

"I am going to kill them," said Gildor.

"Lindir said much the same."

"They did this to Lindir?"

Glorfindel nodded.  "They did not manage so many ringlets for him, though.  He stirred part way through and put them off their game, so that when he woke he was bound only on one side of his head… You must have slept very soundly last night, son of Inglor."

"I have not had many nights' unbroken sleep of late," said Gildor stiffly.  He was aggrieved that he had let his guard down enough for such advantage to be taken of him.

"In any event, they show progress.  Lindir too was an improvement."

Gildor was silent for a moment.  "I know you are only waiting for me to ask it," he said at length, "and I suppose I cannot help myself.  Lindir was an improvement…?"

"On the Evenstar."

"Their _sister_?"

"She was the object of many a merry jape during her previous stay here.  'Tis said that is why she kept her last visit so short."

"Little good may it do her!  Do not her brothers' travels often take them to the Lady's Wood?"

"Ah…" Glorfindel made a quiet _tch_ with his tongue.  "Those visits are fewer of late, for reasons you can probably imagine."

Gildor could well imagine indeed.  He and his band protected travelers on the East Road, over the Misty Mountains from easternmost Mirkwood and as far west as the Tower Hills.  It was a task they had borne for two _yéni_ , during which it sat on their shoulders more lightly at some times than at others, for the world was beautiful and their hearts loved travel and open country.  But this was the heaviest that Gildor had felt it in a generation of Men.

"The creatures in the mountains are restless," he said.  "We must keep a sharp eye even by the Anduin, where they did not once like to go.  Some say the Enemy's creatures fear to cross running water, but if ever that was so, it is not now.  They avoid the Old Ford, but that is clearly done to skirt the traffic they would otherwise meet there; we have found trees with grooves that show the repeated use of hand lines, and remnants of makeshift bridges elsewhere.  Orc-work, and shoddy even for Orcs, but…"

"If it gets them across it has served their purpose," said Glorfindel.  Gildor nodded.  "You said last night in the Hall that you think some chieftain of theirs has risen in strength."

"We have found his mark left in places, some of them far apart and seemingly by different hands, which makes us think he gathers many beneath his name.  It is Othrod." This last he had not said the night before.  He had been drinking, and he had not wished to speak of it until he was of more sober mind.  He dared a glance at Glorfindel's face.

Glorfindel's features did not change, but he did not say anything right away.  At length: "A classicist, this upstart Orc of yours, to take his name from the one who fought Tuor at Gondolin."

"They do crop up now and again," Gildor agreed.  "Though when they do, they are more apt to assume the names of Boldog or Gorgol."

"The harsher the syllables the better.  That is the way of these creatures.  They would rather title themselves after The Butcher than assume any name remotely Elvish in tune." Glorfindel's voice was deceptively light as he spoke.  "So!  He has better taste then most Orcs, but little sense to go with it.  Othrod died at Gondolin, beneath Tuor's blade.  My lord approaches," he added, giving a nod of his head.

Gildor's thoughts, which had drifted briefly into another Age, returned.  The Master of Rivendell had indeed turned a corner some distance ahead and was now walking toward them.  His two sons were with him, dark-haired and alike to one another as two pips from the same apple.  Gildor's heart smoldered resentfully, but it was no hard task to wear a civil face in front of Elrond Peredhil, who was the most gracious of hosts and whose kind considerations made up for the antics of his grown sons.

"Hail, Lord of Imladris," Gildor greeted him when the two parties had entered within easy speaking distance of the other.  "It gladdens my heart to meet you in so fair a setting."

"Hail Inglorion," Elrond answered with a smile.  "If you had seen my roses this summer, you would not waste such flattery on my kitchen gardens."

"Father, you should not say such things.  Maybe Gildor _likes_ turnip greens."

"That's right, Lord Father.  You should ask his pardon."

"I think rather that you should both ask his pardon, for the two of you and your absurdities," said Elrond pointedly.  "My dear Gildor!  I do beg your forgiveness for the gross misbehavior of my sons this morning.  My understanding is that they inconvenienced you.  It is not right they should so treat a guest."

"Forgiveness, if forgiveness is called for, is easily given," said Gildor.  He addressed these words to all three of them, but he tried not to look directly at the Twins.  He did not wish to give the appearance of inspecting them too closely, and in any case, he knew that searching for guilt in either of those bland faces would have been in vain.

Which of them had done it, he wondered, and how?  That both had taken part he did not doubt, though even if it had been only one of the brothers, the other would never have betrayed him.  But Gildor suspected that their task had been twofold, with one to guard while the other painstakingly combed out his hair, forming each separate slender lock and weaving it snugly in place.  Fifteen minutes it had taken Gildor, Glorfindel, and one of the maidservants from that morning to unbind him without cutting his hair.  Whose agile fingers had formed those devilish knots in the first place?

Finding a new route through Lord Elrond's gardens, the five Elves walked on together at a sedate pace, talking first of the fine day and other pleasantries, then of more serious matters.  Glorfindel brought up the matter of the Orc named by Gildor, and the twins began asking questions at this point as well, which Gildor answered to the best of his ability.  They seemed especially interested to know more of the sigil that accompanied Othrod's name, forming part of his mark: a black shape like a curled claw.

Gildor described it to the best of his ability, but added that he had made a likeness in paper and ink, which was presently in his packs somewhere but which he would give them at a more opportune moment.  He knew by report that Elladan and Elrohir made a study of such marks, as they did of all matters pertaining to Orcs.  "Do you recall seeing such a mark in your own travels?" he asked.

"I do not recall such a one as that which you describe," said one of the brothers, "but when you find your copy we will compare it with the others in Elrohir's collection."

"These _Yrch_ love to leave their little scratches where they go.  Perhaps it is their bid at immortality," said Elrohir.

There was a look of distaste on their father's face, as there had been ever since Othrod's name came up.  Elrond had been walking with them and listening to this part of the conversation in silence.  The discussion at hand was a needful one, and it was right that the Lord of Imladris be made aware of such matters affecting the lands around him, and the wayfarers who passed through his peaceful valley.  Nonetheless:

"I do not like that little book of yours, Elrohir.  Have I told you so of late?"

Elrohir gave a shrug, but Elrond's comment was sufficient cue that the topic was dropped, and the conversation took another direction.

Gildor thought the Peredhil seemed bored at the shift.  Indeed, they took leave of their father, Gildor and Glorfindel not long after.  When they had gone, Elrond offered up another apology for Gildor's travails that morning.  "They are good boys," he said, "and mean no harm.  Still, I know they can be a trial at times for those unaccustomed to their more…whimsical side."

Gildor shrugged and smiled.  "The merry jests of the sons of Elrond are famous among all who know or hear tell of them," he said.  "Nor is it the first time that I have been an object of their pranks." This was true, although it had not been his fortune for many years together.

A little while after, Elrond was greeted and stayed by a man in his service, and Gildor and Glorfindel walked on.

"You are annoyed with them," said Glorfindel when they were out of hearing distance, "and I can understand why.  Still, I will say of their behavior, it is some small relief for those who love them.  There was a time when it was otherwise, you see." Gildor looked at him, and Glorfindel explained.  "You know of my lord's troubles some years ago, and the departure of his lady over the sea."

Gildor nodded.  "Yes, although I was not here for any part of it when it happened – we were in Lorien at the time, and the Lord and Lady there were much aggrieved for their daughter.  That was a sad time."

Glorfindel lowered his head in assent.  "A sad time, and an evil one.  I was abroad much in the area around the Redhorn, rooting out the Orc den that had taken her, and Elladan and Elrohir were with me long in that chase before they would consent to go to their family.  In truth, Gildor, I had to press them to leave off the hunt; to go to their mother and be some present help and support to their father, and tend upon and comfort their sister.  Once my lady Celebrían had left, though, there was no keeping them in Rivendell, for they would ride out ever and again to hunt and slay the Orcs who took their mother and used her with such cruelty.  Grim companions they were, Gildor, whether on horseback or afoot: black in their sorrow, terrible in their wrath.  It seemed, to those of us who had so long known Elladan and Elrohir, that the Orcs had stolen them as well, replacing the merry jesting youths we loved with two grim doubles, cold and unrelenting as death, their minds occupied with naught but blood and the slaughter of their enemies."

"Have they let go of their anger, then?  Do they not still ride to kill Orcs?" asked Gildor.  He would have been surprised to learn otherwise.

"They ride still.  Yet they have become more temperate in their rage, less obdurate.  Somewhere in the intervening years they recovered or relearnt something of joy, and laughter came again to Rivendell.  They began to take up their old pranks and jokes once more, and their lordly father, who had thought them lost forever, found the sons of Imladris returned."

-.-.-.-

After Glorfindel's story of the twins, of the implacability of those first years of their rage and how they had come, with time, to soften, Gildor felt some of his resentment diminish.  His own parents walked in Aman, or so he chose to believe, for he did not like to think the halls of Mandos still held them.  When it had happened, when they had been slain in the First and Second Ages of the world, he remembered the darkness that had weighed on him.  It had not departed for many years together, and though the greater part of that old grief was gone now, the memory remained.

Framed by that memory, the jokes of the two Peredhil became more understandable: some bid at old normalcy and, as Glorfindel would have it, a sign of healing and the restoration of their better spirits.

After that dramatic first waking in Rivendell, it appeared that Gildor had been granted a reprieve, for he was not subjected to any further pranks.  This might have been due to practicality rather than to remorse or fatherly chastisement, for the span of time in which they might have carried out further tricks was not a long one.  Gildor and his folk were to bide at Imladris for two weeks together, but Elladan and Elrohir were scheduled to ride out a bare few days after Gildor's first arrival.

On the evening before they were to leave, the brothers brought up the drawing of the Orc mark that Gildor had told them about.  He came to their suite later, picture in hand, and one of the Peredhil, whom he discovered shortly to be Elrohir, waved him in and bid him sit while he sought out his little book.  It was the one of which Lord Elrond had spoken, and obviously much used, for it was battered and weather-beaten.  Elrohir placed it on a little table with Gildor's drawing beside it, and as he turned the pages with his finger, he looked closely at the image Gildor had made, an open avid look on his face.  He appeared as one caught in the throes of enlightened enthusiasm, as if Gildor had offered the sketch of some new-discovered bird or flower rather than the chosen sigil of an Orkish brigand.

"Ah, here," he said at last, tapping a page in his little book.  "This mark, or rather one similar to it, has been used before.  You see, the open claw of Narauk?  But the Orc who made that mark is dead, and so we know it is not his; more than that, the thumb crooks inward.  It is not descending, as Narauk's is.  It is beginning to close." He jotted something in small, careful script beneath the mark of Othrod's claw.

"There are many marks in that book," said Gildor, who had been looking on with some curiosity.  Elrohir did not wait to be asked but offered the book to him, and he paged through a succession of images and the cloud of marginalia surrounding each of them in growing amazement.  "I would not have thought…" Many of the images were disturbing, as was only to be expected from their makers, but he had not imagined such variety.  It was true that Gildor too, in the course of his wide travels, had seen the marks Orcs left on stone and tree, but he had observed those marks apart from one another, separated by time and location, and without keeping any lasting records of his own.  To see them all in one place was illuminating.

"They are all of them different from one another," nodded Elrohir as Gildor handed the book back to him.  "Sometimes those differences are small, but sometimes they find very creative ways to distinguish themselves."

"I do not think it so remarkable," said Elladan.  He was sitting up at the head of Elrohir's bed with his back against the wall and his arms behind his head, a bland expression on his face.  "Orcs are territorial, and so it is in their interest to distinguish themselves.  Cats will scratch, and dogs and wolves make water where it suits them.  An Orc's mark serves much the same purpose."

Gildor thought that the Orc marks in their book showed more mindfulness than dog piss or cat scratches, but did not think it bore arguing.  After all, in the main, Elladan was right.  "You have kept that book a long time," he commented.

"You know about our mother," said Elladan.  "That was in 2509.  It was 2510, the year she set sail, when my brother began to keep this log of Orkish marks."

"We did not like that any should escape our nets or Glorfindel's.  The Orcs at the Redhorn had a notable mark that Glorfindel pointed out to us, like a horse with a broken back.  We had hunted Orcs before without giving their marks much thought.  But when Glorfindel showed us that mark, Brother Elladan began to entertain a maggot, a driving desire that the mark and all places where it was found be recorded, and its makers found and scoured from the earth."

"But you are the one who keeps the book?" Gildor had seen that the script throughout was mainly Elrohir's.

Elrohir smiled.  "I have the better penmanship."

"He is the better artist as well," said Elladan.  "He is much more patient than I am, and he has a fine hand for detail."

"I think now I have had a question answered that I did not want to ask," said Gildor dryly.

The twins pressed at once for what he meant, so he shared his thought processes of the other day and how he had kept wondering which of them, Elladan or Elrohir, had been the one to tie the knots in his hair.  They laughed much at this, but they would not confirm his theory, although they did apologize for pranking him to start with.  It was the third apology that Gildor had received on their account, but the first to have come from them directly, after the two from their father.

It was also, when Gildor thought about it later, not really an apology so much as a tangled self-excusing account of their motives, told over the bottle of wine that Elladan now opened, and whose uncorking roused Glorfindel from whatever obscure corner he had been hiding in to come join their company.  "Rivendell is only so big," said Elladan, pouring a glass for himself last of all, "and we can only play our tricks on the same set of people so many times.  We need fresh blood, you see, and new bodies to play on."

"That was why we were so glad that you and your people arrived before we were to leave," said Elrohir.  "On the one hand, it is not exactly fair of us, putting you to such grief when you were new-come out of the wild.  But then again, you _were_ new-come out of the wild, and that afforded us some chance to polish our trick on someone with senses honed and keen, not some comfortable homebody."

"Certainly you would not think it fair of us to practice on Lindir again, or Glorfindel," stated Elladan in utmost assurance, though he made up for his presumption in the same moment by topping off Gildor's glass, which had run low on the scarlet.  "And playing that trick on a Dwarf – no, it is just too easy.  You CANNOT ask it of us, we will not stand for it."

"Yes, there is something to what Elladan says there.  Providing them with a different target is a great kindness to the rest of us," said Glorfindel.  He raised a glass to Gildor in a token of appreciation, which was immediately joined by Elladan and Elrohir and quickly kicked off a round of entertaining toasts.

The next morning, nursing a slight ache behind his temples, Gildor nevertheless smiled at his memory of the night before, and he stood with the rest of the household to see the twins off without a trace of rancor.  They had shown him a most enjoyable evening, and he offered up genuine wishes for safe travel and good luck on their journey.

-.-.-.-

Raumaturz woke in the dark to find that he could not raise his head more than two inches from the ground on which he lay.  Nothing bound him at the chest or shoulders, but his wrists were caught tight on either side of him at the fullest extension of both arms, and he could not feel his fingers.  There was nothing around his neck, but when he tried to lift his head again he felt shooting pains through his scalp, and it came to him that something had him by the hair.  Try as he might, he could not raise his head up any higher than those two inches' leeway.

When he finally, after several minutes of straining, lowered his head, he could feel the tightness in his neck and shoulders from the effort.  He was panting at this point, trembling a little.  He was large for an Orc of the mountains, but that meant little when he was bound like this and at the mercy of whoever bound him.  He did not know how he had come to be here.  His skull ached and his thoughts had the cloudy lurching dislocation that most likely indicated some kind of a head wound.  Maybe that was why he couldn't remember being attacked, or anything else to indicate who or what had done this to him.

It was a cloudless night, and the stars winked brightly overhead.  He shivered with a chill that was more than the autumn air surrounding him.  Try as he might, he could not tell how he had got into this situation.

Was he alone?  Although he could not hear anything, a prickling sensation between his shoulder blades made him almost certain that he was being watched.  When he tried to raise his head a third time, that feeling increased sharply.  Had he been able, he would have jumped out of his skin as a ghostly figure suddenly interposed itself between him and the stars.  When a second pallid face swam into his line of vision, a bare few inches from his nose, he actually sobbed aloud and closed his eyes.

So they were wights of some sort: terrible shades of the dead, like the kind he and the lads had always joked about around the fire.  Only difference was, he had thought that he was only making a joke!  By their white faces they must be the kind of ghouls that subsisted on living blood, and they were going to suck the life out of him without him able to lift a finger to save himself.

"Raumaturz.  Raumaturz…"

The voice was impossibly clear and bright.  He opened his eyes to find the speaker just above him, clear eyes looking into his.  He shuddered as it receded, and then he saw the ghostly image double and realized that, in fact, they were no ghosts, but two Elves standing above him, both with the same fine symmetrical features, the same calm expressions on their eyes and lips.

They were Elves, not ghosts, and they were playing with him.  The realization roused him to fury.

"The _fuck're_ you doin' t'me?  The fuck've you done…t'me…" The slurring of his own words horrified him: he made another frenzied surge upward, only to be brought short again by his hair.  The Elves and the stars beyond them swirled and bobbed in his vision.

"…ought not to thrash like that, Raumaturz," one of them was saying over him.  "You are liable to hurt yourself…"

"Stop saying my name!" he cried.  "Why do you know my name?!"

"We have been watching you, Raumaturz.  You and your friends.  We saw what you did.  We saw everything."

"What I did?  I didn't do _nothin'_! What are you talking about?" He twisted his wrists violently, then tried to thrust his fists upward, but there wasn't enough give.  He tried to imagine what he looked like from above.  If he'd done this to a captive, laid them out on the ground like this, he'd have used stakes of some sort.  Jerk them out of the ground, yes, yes – but without enough give he couldn't raise his arms high enough, and that still wouldn't take care of his hair.

"We saw you with that Man, Raumaturz," said one of the Elves.  "The one Azrim killed.  The one whose boots you are wearing."

"Yeah, but it was Azrim killed him, not me!"

"He went with you because of your deceptions, Raumaturz," said the other.  "You were the agent of his undoing.  You told him you would share the spoils when it was over."

"He was an ugly Dunland _twat_ an' he was just gonna stab us in the back at the end of it.  We on'y beat him to the chase!

"You murdered him, as he would have murdered you.  And now you shall pay recompense for his life with your own."

"Why me, though! Why not Azrim!"

"Because Azrim is already dead…"

Before he could really process that – Azrim, dead?  Azrim, who had survived the fight at Celebrant with him, and cut and run with him after? – one of those Elves swooped down at him again.  He gagged in alarm, the sudden closeness making his head swim.

"Breathe easy, Raumaturz," the Elf murmured close above him.  "There now.  I am placing your knife in your hand.  Can you feel it?"

"Can't…" the words hitched in his throat.  "Can't feel my fingers…"

"It is the right hand, Raumaturz.  Close your fist around it." Trusting desperately to his hand to obey him, he willed his fingers shut.  "There now!  That was not so hard.  You still have the use of that hand at least."

Oh, if only his wrists weren't bound.  He'd have that knife up and buried in the Elf's mocking eye.

"We have a game for you, Raumaturz.  We have given your knife back, so you can play.  Do not drop it, though, or the game will be over."

"Just free yourself, Raumaturz.  That is all you have to do.  Cut yourself loose, and you can go free.  You can use the knife we gave you.  Only mind that you free yourself without cutting any part of yourself, or you will have lost. …Should I repeat any part of that?"

The Orc snarled helplessly at the two _Golug-hai_ just out of his reach.

"We will be watching you, Raumaturz.  You have ten minutes."

"Oh come now," said the other Elf suddenly, turning its gaze from Raumaturz toward its companion instead.  "Do be fair, Elladan.  He just said he cannot feel his hands."

Raumaturz listened incredulously as the other Elf relented.  "Very well, Orc.  Twenty minutes…and be glad that my brother has such a generous heart…"

As sudden as that, they were gone.  The stars shown above him, heartless and gay, and it was just himself and his bonds and the knife he supposedly held in his right hand.

Could he trust the two Elves?  No, he couldn't.  You couldn't ever trust an Elf.  But what choice did he have?  As it was, they could kill him any time they wanted.  So what did he lose by playing their little game?

 _Think, Raumaturz.  How will you do this?_ He could not feel the knife in his hand.  Could he see it?  Not if he kept trying to hold his head up.  Pressing it back against the ground, he turned it as best he was able, and was rewarded by the sight of his knife, and his hand holding it, and the hempen cord by which he was bound, all limned with the same silver in the dark.

He knew that he needed to turn the knife in his hand so that the blade was facing downward, toward his wrist, but when he willed the knife to turn his fingers would not obey, and he nearly lost his grip on it altogether.  This was a movement that required finer coordination than merely closing his fingers.  Somehow, he needed to get at least some of the feeling back in his hand.  Though he could not simply jerk his hand free, if he kept swiveling his wrist he might be able to loosen the cord.  Enough to let the blood circulate again.

And so he lay swiveling his wrists back and forth for longer than he cared to think off, hoping that he would be able to feel some genuine sensation in his fingers before he abraded himself to the point of opening an artery.

His fingers began to feel warm and then to tingle, and then he had to wait for the worst of it to pass before he could try to maneuver his knife, to allow its own weight to turn it between his fingers and thumb.  As the blade dropped slowly toward his wrist, he whimpered imprecations against his knife and his hand and the two Elves who were the cause of this torment.  He'd show them what he thought of their game.  He'd cut them to ribbons and dance on their bones.  With a crude jerking motion he attempted to saw through the hemp.

" _Cut yourself loose, and you can go free.  Only don't cut yourself, or you will have lost."_

He had to be careful.  If he cut his wrist they would be watching.  If he nicked any part of his own skin, he would lose.

The sawing that he was doing was more like scraping.  The movement at this angle was too limited for better.  Had he been able, he would have wept.  As it was, he whimpered and swore and sawed and scraped.  When he looked he could see strands of hemp snap and spring away as his efforts flung a steady powder of tiny particles into the cool night air.  He saw but could not hear the quick abrasion of the cord over the blood pounding in his ears.

When the rope fell away he didn't believe it at first, and when he did believe it he almost dropped the knife.  Somehow he managed to stop himself before that ultimate disaster, and he quickly reached over himself in the other direction to cut at the cord binding his other wrist.

 _Free!_ It fell away from that hand too and he thrust both fists into the air, daring the unseen Elves to do their worst.  His hands were free, and he had a knife.  Feeling now that the danger, if not gone or significantly abated, was at least no worse than it had been before, nonetheless he told himself to be wary, made a point of chafing both wrists quickly and carefully before bringing his hands to his head.

It was as he felt his hair that he lost the whole thread of his thought in horror and shock.  What had they done?  How had they done it?  How long had a thing like this taken them?  They had spun out his hair into countless thin strands and somehow fastened each one of them to something behind his head.

_Doesn't matter.  After all, I have a knife._

_But they said you can't cut any part of yourself.  They said so!_

_Hair don't count.  It don't even bleed._

_Does it?  Does it count?_

"Does hair count?" he called out desperately, but he received no answer.  Nonetheless he felt something listening to him.  One or both of them must still be nearby, and they would know if he broke their rules.

 _Do something, at any rate.  Even if it is wrong._ His heart misgave him that if he actually cut each of the taut thin locks of hair that tethered him to the earth, the two strange Elves would call him out for losing or otherwise forfeiting the game.  And so, feeling behind him with his hands, quick but careful, and more gentle than Raumaturz had ever been in the whole of his rough life, he found and felt his way back along the first narrow lock of hair until he discovered what it was tied to: a tiny slender peg, no thicker than his little finger, that had been pushed into the ground.  He twisted it free, and then he felt around about it to discover what felt like a hundred more tiny little pegs pushed into the ground behind his head.

The Orc's mouth gaped and the sweat beaded on his heavy brow as he began to work and tug at them, to pop each little peg up out of the earth.  Time.  How much time did he have?  There was no way of knowing.  How long had he worked at freeing his wrists?  How long was it taking him to pull up his hair?  On an impulse he tried grabbing a handful and just yanking upward.  Too thick a handful, no good, but when he found the right thickness and pulled again, the pegs yielded and flew up with a rattling sound, still knotted to the ends of his hair. 

Yes.  This way was faster.  He grabbed and jerked, jerked and grabbed, until there was nothing else to hold him, and then he scrambled to his feet.  Half the pegs were still hanging from his hair, and he had dropped his knife at some point in the frenzy of pulling his hair free.  Now, panting a bit, he scanned the ground quickly until he found it a bare few feet away and snatched it up.  Breathing heavily, he raked the woods around him with fevered eyes.

Nothing.  There was nothing.  He had been staked out in a little clearing, among unfamiliar trees, and around him the woods were silent.  Now he was free, and he had managed to free himself in under the time the Elf had told him.  He _must_ have, or they would have cut him down.  As it was, he was by himself, no Elves to be seen – and he planned on keeping it that way.  Taking a bare few seconds to sniff around him, Raumaturz detected no familiar scents, so choosing a direction at random, he jogged quickly into the woods.

It was dark, and even with an Orc's night vision the details of his surroundings were all lost in the same silver blur.  His hair was rattling behind him and he growled and gathered it in his hand and shoved the dangling pegs down the back of his tunic.  Fucking Elves.  Stories of _Golug_ tricks and eldritch cleverness were legendary among his kind, but he'd never heard of anything like this.

Where had they brought him?  Where had he been when they took him?  His memories were shrouded in fog, and nothing around him was familiar.  If he could find the cave with the rest of the lads – if the rest of the lads were all right –

Maybe Azrim would be with them.  Maybe they had lied about killing Azrim.  Raumaturz hadn't had the time to think about it before, to question what was being told to him.  Mad bloody Elves, they could have been lying to him about everything!  It was obvious enough they'd set the whole thing up to muck with him.  Them and their game.  Maybe that part about Azrim being dead was a mindfuck too.

But he didn't think so.  They hadn't lied about anything else, had they?  They hadn't lied about the game itself, or about letting him go free.

Out of the corner of his eye he heard something move.  Whipped his head to the right but saw nothing.  Staring straight ahead, he tried to calm himself.  Couldn't let his imagination get the best of him.  Then something hooted in the trees up ahead of him, and he stopped in his tracks, brandishing the knife.  "Show yourselves, you pointy-eared fucks!"

But there was no reply.

"Owl.  Just a fucking owl," he muttered, lowering his knife.

Then he heard a snap behind him, the slow crack of a twig that had been deliberately broken underfoot.  Catching his breath, he turned to find one of the Elves standing there watching, an unreadable expression on its bright pale face.  Heard a sudden soft thump behind him and when he whirled around he saw the second Elf rising out of an impromptu crouch.  Raumaturz looked up in alarm, half expecting a third Elven double to leap from the trees as well, then looked back and forth between his tormenters.  The two Elves were advancing on him, swords drawn and leveled in his direction.

"I won," he said shakily.  "I played your game.  I followed your rules.  You said if I freed myself.  Under twenty minutes.  You said if I didn't cut any part of me…"

"What _did_ we tell him, brother?" asked one of the Elves.

"We told him that if he cut himself loose, he could go free.  We did, didn't we Elladan?"

"Yes, and kept our word," agreed the first.

"Then why?  _Why?_ "  The words dried up in his mouth.  The first tip of an Elven blade was already against the front of his tunic.

"Ah… Well," said the Elf.  Its smile was filled with radiant pity.  "We did not say that we would let you go free forever."

-.-.-.-

>  "…the Wise in the Elder Days taught always that the Orcs were not 'made' by Melkor, and therefore were not in their origin evil.  They might have become irredeemable (at least by Elves and Men), but they remained within the Law.  That is, that though of necessity, being the fingers of the hand of Morgoth, they must be fought with the utmost severity, they must not be dealt with in their own terms of cruelty and treachery.  Captives must not be tormented, not even to discover information for the defence of the homes of Elves and Men.  If any Orcs surrendered and asked for mercy, they must be granted it, even at a cost.  This was the teaching of the Wise, though in the horror of the War it was not always heeded."  
>  The History of Middle-Earth, _Morgoth's Ring_

And for the sons of Elrond, Lord of Imladris, it was always war.

**Author's Note:**

> This story was originally written for NaNoWriMo 2015, but I shied from posting it for a long time. It represents my first time writing canonical Elf characters from Tolkien's works, so please let me know what you think.


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